Building Blocks
by smallsteps32
Summary: Just as his house needs four walls to keep it standing, Douglas' own foundations are built from four integral parts. His first impressions, however, were of nothing more permanent than a lifeline here and there. Or, first four signs that Douglas Richardson's life was looking up.


**Hello dear readers. Another piece, so soon. Just a short character piece for now. Please do enjoy.**

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**Carolyn**

For months, Douglas had been praying to a deity that he wasn't entirely sure he still believe in for a sign, and loathe as he was to admit it, it seemed to come in the form of Carolyn Knapp-Shappey. On any other day, Douglas would have ignored her or walked away, but there was something about her that smacked him out of his miserable trance – she was sharp, vicious lines against the muggy haze that his life had become.

Alcoholism, unemployment, two ex-wives and as many daughters as out of reach as they were out of sight… it was enough to make even the most vigorous of men crumble in on himself. Douglas was as prone to bouts of depression as he was to fits of manic energy and ingenuity, and now more than ever he was slipping.

Only his pride, wounded and panging, kept him bristling with indignation and searching for some way to dredge up what little energy he had left. His reputation was no doubt in tatters, but that didn't mean he had to rot.

Companies always needed pilots. There were never enough pilots anymore. The youth were all studying to be politicians, and doctors, and movie stars – it was a rare thing to find anyone who openly professed a desire to fly, which was good news for him. At least, that was what Douglas had assumed. Job vacancies, it seemed, weren't as plentiful as he had expected.

Then there was Carolyn, and MJN, and a phone call at a ridiculous hour. Her words had reached his ears alongside the muffled yaps of some creature that Douglas couldn't be bothered to imagine, and despite his sour mood, he had spurred himself into action. This woman needed a pilot. He needed a job. He needed a reason to get out of bed in the morning and he would be damned if he was going to sit around and let something else slip through his fingers.

It all happened in a bit of a blur, really. One minute, Douglas was lying on the sofa with a hot water bottle and a soap opera omnibus on low, the next, he was wearing his smartest suit and sitting in his car, willing the irritable and reckless parts of his personality to trickle away until _after_ he had been employed.

Carolyn Knapp-Shappey was like a slap in the face.

Just as an actual slap would shut him up completely in the midst of an argument, she brought him to an equally abrupt halt in the middle of a deluge of white-lies and overly embellished tales of his skill and professionalism.

Carolyn was brash, her tone was clipped, and there was a shark-like glint in her eyes that would normally suggest a challenge. Now, all it did was make Douglas wish he was young enough for _squirming_ to look anything like appropriate.

It was only when he was sitting on the other side of her desk, listening to her ask him all sorts of questions that cut too quick to the bone, that Douglas realised that for once in his life, he needed someone else to give him the answers. Carolyn Knapp-Shappey seemed like a woman who already held the mark-scheme, and that was more terrifying than the prospect of walking away from Fitton airfield empty-handed.

"I called you in for this interview, Mr Richardson, because you are _qualified_," Carolyn informed him. She somehow managed to pin him down with her gaze whilst simultaneously seeing to the items on her desk as if they were all that mattered; more important than a washed-up former pilot, in any case. "That doesn't mean that I'm unaware of the fact that you were, for all intents and purposes, _fired_ from your previous position."

"But not fired from _this_ one, I hope," Douglas replied, with as much charm as he could muster. Given the slowly churning crater in his chest, he thought he was doing well to come anywhere near endearing.

And yet, his efforts went unnoticed.

"Oh, I see. A funny man, are we?" Carolyn remarked. She had a drawl that dripped just on the wrong side of sweet. "Tell me, Mr Richardson. Did that go down well with your previous employer?"

Douglas paused a moment before replying. Sure, he had no trouble getting along with anyone – a bit of charm, a joke, a fair demonstration of interest in anything from sports to classical theatre could have anyone smiling and patting him on the back. It hadn't stopped them all from selling him down the river when it really mattered, though. He had genuinely thought that they had _liked_ him… until the moment he had needed their support, and they hadn't thought twice before turning their backs on him. They spat on everything from the drink, which had never made it anywhere _near_ a flight, to the smuggling, which was more of a hobby than anything truly illegal.

Being treated like a kicked puppy had the horrible effect of making him _feel_ like one.

"I wouldn't dream to imagine what goes on in the minds of greater men than I," Douglas answered when the silence reached a point at which it could be pulled taut no longer.

The huff and rolled eyes that he was met with were not a good sign. They only made him wish that he _had_ stayed in bed, if only so that he didn't have to feel the sickening prickle of failure again.

"Mr Richardson, I know exactly what you got up to at Air England. I did my research," Carolyn said. She pressed her hands together over the desk and fixed him with a stern glare. "It gives me no great pleasure to inform you that I don't _care_."

"I'm sorry?"

Douglas blinked and shifted in his seat, snagging again on the caustic edge that the woman's every word seemed to carry.

"I don't care. I am trying to run an airline. I have more important things to think about, like finances, and practicalities, and getting staff that will help keep my company running smoothly," Carolyn informed him. "You can be funny, boring, or stupid for all I care. What I need is someone who is qualified, and who won't abandon my airline the moment another offer comes through."

At that, Douglas fought not to lower his gaze. He had only intended for MJN to be a stepping stone – something to pull him out of the mud until he could regain his former glory. However, now that he was faced with the reality…

It was like he was being offered a hand and he longed to reach out and grasp it. He felt far too similar to a child caught in a winter breeze to feel comfortable, and yet lists of vacancies and vague plans had been felt nowhere near as _real_ as the harsh tones of the woman in front of him. These weren't empty promises.

In the face of his silence, Carolyn continued.

"Mr Richardson, if I employ you, I need you to be _good_," she said. "I need you to be a good _pilot_, and I need you to be a good _employee._"

Just as a trickle of doubt threatened to drag Douglas under, a surge of indignation brought him to a steely halt. He had _always_ been a good pilot, and a good employee; too good, perhaps, for his peers to be anything but smug when he was knocked from his pedestal.

"I can assure you, Mrs Knapp-Shappey, that you won't find anyone better," he promised.

This brought the first true smile to Carolyn's face… albeit, still tinged with the same terrifying, predatory edge. She offered her hand as if to seal the deal.

"In that case, Mr Richardson, welcome to MJN."

**GERTI**

The first time Douglas stepped foot on GERTI, he knew that he had made the right decision. For a man to whom bad decisions seemed particularly drawn, that more than anything was a good sign. It had to be.

He was introduced to the plane before he was even assigned his uniform. It was an old model, a Lockheed-Mcdonnell, rusting and clearly falling to pieces, tilting to one side. The fuselage creaked as he made his way along the sixteen seats, and the way that the flight-deck door squeaked offered little comfort. And yet, Douglas couldn't help but be thrilled by it – by her, the ratty, quaint, completely unique little aircraft.

Thrilled… and for the first time in months, so sudden that he didn't recognise the skipping sensation, he was _excited_.

On the face of it, this was nothing more than a job. It was a way to regain his nerve and make _himself_ feel better before he took a shot at his former reputation.

More than that, though, GERTI was a challenge. She would give him something to do that didn't involve sitting around at home wondering where his life had gone wrong. True, her very presence in his life was a stark reminder that things _had_ gone wrong, but she held within her the promise of adventure, of fun, of … of whatever his mind could devise now that it was clear of most of the alcohol that had been stirring it up.

As he sat in the First Officer's seat, confident that Carolyn would only keep him there until she hired a less impressive pilot to fill his shoes, Douglas folded his arms behind his head and took in the space around him. The controls were missing the gleam that they must have once had. The levels and dials stuck a bit when he tried to waggle them – a hefty kick seemed too much of a risk, but a generous distribution of weight atop the panel could loosen up the lower buttons.

GERTI wasn't a _good_ plane. It would take a miracle for anyone to call her that.

Still… Douglas rather liked her. She was something to look forward to.

**Arthur**

Douglas expected many things from his new position.

He hadn't expected Arthur Shappey. In all fairness, he wasn't sure that _anyone_ could truly _expect_ Arthur Shappey. There were happy men. There were sad men. There were men with a thirst for life, for philosophy, for business for new ideas. Arthur was the first man that Douglas had met that had none of these things, and yet was indomitably cheery, relentlessly loud, and thrilled by everything that crossed his path.

He was helpful too, in an unhelpful sort of way.

To begin with, Douglas had been nothing more than politely baffled by Carolyn's choice of steward. At most airlines, the pilots and the cabin crew only really saw each other _on the plane_, but it seemed that with only two people actually working at MJN, they would be seeing a fair amount of each other.

That, in itself, wasn't an issue. Douglas rather liked Arthur.

However, Douglas was eager to keep his head down. He wanted to do well. It wasn't that his work-ethic had suddenly decided to get out of bed after over three decades of snoozing. It was more that he had realised, one morning as he straightened the epaulets that were missing a bar, that he was carrying the fate of an entire company on his shoulders. It wasn't just his own future that was at stake, or his own pride – it was the success and respect of Carolyn and Arthur, and even though he had only just met them, the thought bolstered a confident part of himself that he had rather missed.

It was a lonely thought, but that was the price of being the best. In light of that, Douglas treated Carolyn with the appropriate amount of respect, sharing a dour sense of camaraderie and humour that she would deny even as he appreciated the fact that he had somehow, miraculously, found an employer that didn't make him want to slam his head down on the control panel, repeatedly and painfully. Arthur, for his part, didn't factor into his steady acknowledgement of the rules and rhymes that made MJN tick.

Douglas had tried to strike up some sort of bond with the lad. In retrospect, a cross-word probably hadn't been the best method. Arthur came at the task with as much energy as he came at everything, with even more excitement stoked by the fact that he was being included, and yet they got nowhere. In the end, they both drifted away from each other, silently but certain that whatever they had tried to do had failed.

It was a while before Douglas understood just how important Arthur really was. Yes, he wasn't the best steward, even on GERTI, but he was good enough and he didn't give off the same 'leave me alone' air that some more professional stewards seemed to acquire after a certain amount of years in the air. He wasn't even the best example of an adult, truth be told.

Arthur wasn't anything like the sort of people that Douglas would normally seek out… not that the people he usually sought out had done anything but stab him in the back.

All of that ceased to matter on their first official flight.

Sitting on the flight-deck, steering an aircraft… it was like heaven. Douglas hadn't known how much he had missed flying until there was nothing to see but blue sky and fluffy white clouds for miles around. The hum of the engines thrummed like the tide against the tension that never seemed to leave him nowadays. The slight tilt and rock of the plane was soothing, in its own way.

And yet, he couldn't shake the cold claws of isolation as they closed around him. The Captain's seat was still empty. Carolyn and Arthur were occupied elsewhere, looking after the passengers no doubt.

For someone who had always been surrounded by people, it was unbearable. For someone who had always been surrounded by people, and _still_ felt as if he needed to _force_ his friendships, it was intolerable.

After a while, Douglas snapped. He flicked the service bell and waited. A moment later, the flight-deck door squeaked open and Arthur stuck his head in.

"Hi, Douglas. Did you need something?"

"Are you terribly busy, Arthur?" Douglas inquired, ignoring the question. He glanced over his shoulder to shoot the lad a smile.

"Oh, no, I'm not. Mum's doing most of the work," Arthur replied. He shuffled on the threshold as if he couldn't decide whether he was allowed in or not, as he tapped the edge of the metal door. "Was I supposed to do tea? Or coffee? I could go and-"

"No, no, Arthur, that's alright," Douglas assured him. He winced at the discomfort that seemed to surround the steward. Surely he hadn't made his former cabin crew feel so unwelcome on the flight-deck. "Come in, sit." He motioned towards the empty Captain's seat. "I don't bite, you know."

"Of course you don't," Arthur replied, with only a shadow of his usual cheer. Nevertheless, he bustled into the flight-deck and hovered around the empty seat. "That would be silly. Mum wouldn't have hired you, for a start."

"You never know."

"No, I guess not."

"So, tell me, Arthur," Douglas started. Then he looked up and saw that Arthur still hadn't sat down. "Arthur, take a seat. I could use some company."

That was all it took for Arthur to drop down beside him. The lad looked excited despite his trepidation. He peered out into the sky with a curiosity that brought a smile to Douglas' face, and only reached out to touch the controls once or twice before snatching his hand back and shooting the other man a guilty glance.

"How do feel about a word game?" Douglas announced when the lack of conversation grew too pressing.

"I think they're brilliant," Arthur answered. Then he frowned. "But I'm not very good at them. I could give it a go, though."

"No, don't strain yourself," Douglas sighed.

For a while, there was nothing between them but the hum of the engines. In the corner of Douglas' eye, Arthur grew more and more restless. He was about to tell him he could get back to work when Arthur broke the tension.

"So… is working for us any different from working at Air England?"

"It's very different," Douglas replied.

"Why did you leave?"

"Your mother didn't tell you?"

"No," Arthur said. A quick glance was all it took to confirm Douglas' suspicion that the innocent tone was genuine. Of all the people in the world. Arthur was the last one to take cheap shots.

"I was fired, Arthur," Douglas admitted, giving in to a wash of resignation.

"Oh no, how come?"

"Because apparently some people disapprove of me sewing kimonos into my jacket's lining," Douglas replied, biting down on a sliver of bitterness. He flexed his fingers around the controls, the nearest he could reach. "It wasn't even as if they caught me in the act. Working hours were long gone."

"Why were the kimonos in your jacket?" Arthur asked. "Couldn't you just put them in your bag?"

"I wasn't meant to be transporting them," Douglas replied.

"Oh, wow," Arthur exclaimed. Then he hastily sat forwards, resting his arms on his knees. "I mean, not wow. You got fired. But wow, that's a really clever to move things you're not supposed to me moving."

"Yes… yes it is," Douglas said, slowly, tasting every word. The urge to preen was irresistible, and he could feel it worming its way under his skin as he adjusted their speed. "Although, not nearly as clever as the stunts I _got away with_."

As he regaled Arthur with all manner of stories, not all outside the realms of possibility, Douglas couldn't help but be rather pleased. There was nothing quite like having someone think that you were very, very clever.

**Martin**

The day that Douglas met Martin Crieff, he decided that the man was both the best and worst thing that had happened to him in months.

On the one hand, he was far more tolerable than any of the other Captain's that Carolyn had employed; energetic, eager, and ridiculously enthusiastic about all things aviation, he was far from boring. On the other, he was prissy, smug, and a single discrepancy could tip him into a bout of petulance the likes of which Douglas had ever seen.

On a third, fairer hand, Martin was new, he was inexperienced, and Douglas could appreciate that he was clinging to his newly gifted responsibility with all his might; when relaxed, he had even taken part in a word game and proved himself delightfully competitive. He hadn't mocked Douglas' predilection for play at all, as other fully grown adults had. On a fourth hand, Martin probably wouldn't last long, and Douglas wasn't looking forward to bidding farewell to another pilot if the build-up to that goodbye was a month of sniping and cheap shots rooted in badly misplaced jealousy.

All in all, Douglas tried not to take too much notice of Martin, even though Martin had done everything he could to cement his position as a pillar of MJN, capturing Douglas' attention with startling proficiency… and not always in a good way.

By the time the Captain was hired, Douglas' life was falling into place and he was cautiously content.

His job was secure, and had been for years. He was comfortable enough with Carolyn and Arthur to consider them his friends, even if he wouldn't admit it. The grounds crew were on side, even if he had to play up to their expectations every now and then. Douglas even had a new wife, who was _terrific_ – true, it took a lot of effort to keep them both smiling some days, but that was the price of having someone to come home to that actually _smiled_ when he walked through the door.

Martin's determination to stay in the Captain's seat posed somewhat of a dilemma. It _was_ nice to think that there would be someone in the flight-deck that would still be there the next time Douglas thought to look – someone permanent, that he could get to know and like. It _wasn't_ nice to think that he would be spending the next, god-only-knew-how-long, being put in his place by someone who messed up more times than _he_ bent the rules.

Each time Douglas thought that he had adjusted to the fact that Martin was now a fixed point in his week, a stick in the mud, a bloody speedbump that he would have to pass every time he wanted to come to work, he was thrown through another loop.

He had come to rely upon the people around him.

Carolyn was important; she was his lifeline, his sanctuary, and loathe as he was to admit it, the one person in the world that had seen him for the wretch he was and offered a hand – a selfish, money-making hand, but a hand nonetheless.

Arthur was important; he was the sun, and Douglas was too much of a raincloud to do without him.

Douglas even needed the bloody plane more than he was willing to admit.

But Martin… the more Martin dug his heels in, the more Douglas felt that it might be better if he just… went away. If Martin went away, Douglas wasn't sure what he would do. They had reached the point where is Martin went away, all they could do was return to the relentless, dreary, rather depressing wash of pilot after pilot that didn't want to be there. There was nothing more miserable than watching everyone else move on and treat GERTI like a wayward house, a pit-stop, knowing all the while that for _him_ there was no getting out.

At least with Martin there, refusing to budge, making himself at home, Douglas could take some pride from sticking with MJN. At least if all four of them were sticking around, it was a home, in a way… even if the newest tenant needed the hat slapped from his head now and then.

It took months before Douglas realised why he couldn't settle on one single reason why he did or didn't like Martin – he did, but then he didn't, and all the while he couldn't quite muster the urge to want him gone… he didn't want him gone. A part of him even wanted to be his friend. Their very first day together, Douglas had _wanted_ to be friends, because Martin Crieff, if nothing else, was a thousand ways different to the people that he was normally surrounded by. Stuck up, smug, know-it-all – somehow, when Martin did it, it was different to how the pilots at Air England had done it. They _knew_ they deserved to be all those things.

Martin didn't know that – he just felt it in his guts. Everything he did was from his guts and not his head, and Douglas… in spite of himself, Douglas knew what that felt like. He was the brains, the smart guy, the one that solved all of MJN's problems, but ninety-percent of the time, Douglas acted from his guts. It wasn't _his_ fault his guts were better than everyone else's.

Then there was a moment. It was three words, slipped into the middle of a rant. They flitted into Douglas' ears and he froze, the air knocked from his lungs with a single kick.

They had been having a rather nice flight, all things considered. It was clear skies, Martin had executed a decent take-off, and he wasn't doing too badly in their chosen game. It took him five times as long as Douglas to come up with anything, but he did it with a thoughtful smile that made Douglas take it easy on him, allowing his brain time to catch up with his tongue.

They laughed over some joke, grimaced at the thought of what the passengers were being forced to eat, and Douglas was content for a while to enjoy the company of a man who was there because he _wanted_ to be – not because he needed the money or because his next job hadn't come along – but because he _wanted_ to be in the air beside him, because he _liked_ flying even more than Douglas did.

Then Douglas had tried to make a decision regarding their speed, their height – it wasn't important what it was. He barely remembered it even seconds later. He had answered the radio and forgotten for a moment that he wasn't in command.

Martin hadn't taken kindly to that. He wasn't furious, or spiteful, or anywhere near the hissy fit that Douglas knew he could throw. It was a 'talking to' – calm, clipped, a little _too_ proud of himself for someone who's only real claim to fame was that he could recite protocol at the drop of a hat. He was doing that thing that never failed to grate on Douglas' nerves. He knitted his scolding into a web of envy, listing Douglas' achievements and putting him down, reminding him of all that he had lost whilst building himself up.

And then – those three words.

"I'm not impressed…"

The rest didn't matter.

Douglas didn't hear anything but those three words. He had heard them before, a thousand times now, it seemed, and yet Martin's lips were the only ones that had ever directed them at _him_.

Not, impressed.

Martin wasn't impressed.

Well, that much was a given. But that day, in that moment, Douglas felt the world shift just a little bit. That niggling doubt, that sliver of misunderstanding, unravelled and he understood for one shimmering, albeit unpleasant moment, _why_ he couldn't make himself want Martin to leave.

Martin wasn't impressed.

In all his life, there always seemed to be two types of people.

There were the Carolyns – the ex-wives, the former employers, the jealous peers. The disappointed faces and angry scowls, who saw past his bluster and knew exactly what a failure he was – who didn't care for what he actually _had_ achieved. They cut him to the quick and would pounce the moment he ceased to be useful.

Then there were the Arthurs – the people that gazed up at him in awe and didn't see a single fault. He loved them, he did, but it was hard work maintaining that level of excellence, and it took a toll.

And Martin… there was Martin, sitting snugly between the two, still nattering away to himself and thinking that he was teaching Douglas some sort of lesson. Martin, who would just as happily play childish games as he would force Douglas to sit at his desk and copy out every wrongly-filled-out page in his log-book. Martin Crieff, of all people, who couldn't seem to decide whether he wanted an obedient subordinate or a friend.

Martin, who wasn't impressed.

There was no doubt that Martin knew about Douglas' good side, he knew about everything he had achieved, his talents, his finesse, his skill – he knew about it, and he _believed it._ He wouldn't bring them up so often if he didn't believe it. He wouldn't be jealous if he didn't believe that Douglas was as brilliant as Arthur said he was.

Despite that, he wasn't impressed.

Just unimpressed – not waiting to kick him while he was down, not capable of seeing just how wounded and precarious Douglas' position was. There wasn't a single inkling in his mind that Douglas' wasn't as good as he said he was and yet he didn't care.

For a horrible moment, in which Douglas stared at the other man and tried to fight off a flood of warmth to his chest, Martin Crieff was the most important man in the world.

The next moment, he was a prat again.

"Are you even listening to me?" Martin demanded, for what must have been the second time given the irritable flush in his cheeks. He nudged his hat back into place, tapping the gold braid, and shot Douglas a final scowl.

"Of course I am, Martin," Douglas drawled. He tried not to frown as he checked the control panel, only to have the other man lean over his shoulder, monitoring his every move.

When he leaned back, he took care to sit straight and pretend that he hadn't come to an important decision regarding his new colleague; it was only as he made up his mind that he realised a part of him had been planning on deliberately riling the other man, to see if he would leave of his own accord. That plan was out the window now. Douglas offered Martin a friendly smile, and hoped to god that he didn't make this any more difficult than it had to be. It would be a shame if things were to change now.

"It looked to me like you were staring into space," Martin remarked after a moment. He did that, Douglas reminded himself – he liked to be the one to end the conversation. To make his mark.

He couldn't have that.

"No, no, I assure you, Captain," Douglas drawled. "You have my utmost attention. I can't imagine what I'd do without your particular flair for command."

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**Alright, long story short, I didn't intend to write anything else for a while.**

**However, I'm getting a new laptop tomorrow and I've had to back up all my work, so I didn't want to work on my novel and have to go through the whole external hard-drive hassle again today. However, this is good news for you because it means I just went ahead and started a new piece to keep the writerly juiced flowing.**

**I've wanted to do a Douglas character piece for ages, and this seemed like a good time. Let me know what you think, and whether you liked it.**


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